


A Source of Warmth

by thehobblefootalchemist



Series: Like Calligraphy on Scrap Paper [3]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Am...am I really the first person on here to use that ship tag, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Well get ready for it to not be the last because we're barreling forward on this here rarepair train, Wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 13:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobblefootalchemist/pseuds/thehobblefootalchemist
Summary: The end-of-year-exam package just isn't complete without a good exhaustion nap, though for Jazz said nap comes along with a majorly distracting repercussion: realizing she may be nursing a crush.





	1. Nodding Off

**Author's Note:**

> Another college-era scenario well into the book lovers' fourth year of acquaintance, where a posing-as-human Writer's regular presence around the Fenton household has passed beyond the norm and is making its way into the the unquestioned.

It was still a time of rigorous study in the Fenton house. Two days of finals were over and done with (for better or for worse), but two were still to be had, and both Jazz and Danny were feeling the pressures of their semesters weighing them down.

Jazz in particular was having a rough time of it—taking six classes at once had perhaps not been her best idea. But responsible for said idea she still was, and so study she would, even if she had to hole up in her room like some kind of cryptid.

She wasn’t without company though, which was nice. The Ghostwriter had rather insisted on it when he’d heard just how much work she’d taken on. If it had been anyone else she might have felt patronized, but they both knew he was more than well acquainted with what obsessive and reclusive periods of work could do to someone, and she was sincerely grateful when every now and again he quietly reminded her that she needed to drink something.

Now, though, she was thinking, now was time for some kind of break. Sentences were starting to moosh together in the books she had laying open all around her bedspread, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get them to stay strung together coherently in her mind.

“’m gonna lie down a minute,” she mumbled, and from over at her desk where he sat writing longhand into a spiral notebook, she heard Writer make a distracted noise of acknowledgment.

Jazz was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Indeed, she was so tired that she didn’t even properly hit the pillow, let alone manage to stretch out properly.

\---

When she awoke it wasn’t all at once. For a while Jazz swam pleasantly in the waters between dream and conscious thought, carried along on a current of silence broken only by the noise of a fountain pen meeting paper. That was a comforting sound; a sound that meant a story was in the works, meant her best friend was close by.

She somewhat wanted to ask how long she’d been out, but, before her mind could properly translate the inquiry into words, an unusual fact became apparent that made another question take precedence: she could feel her blanket beneath her hand, which meant she was laying upon it and not under it. So how had she come to feel so securely warm?

Jazz had to work very hard to keep noise from escaping her throat when she cracked open an eye and saw purple. Even sleep-addled she was able to deduce immediately that, sometime during her slumber, Writer had gotten up for the express purpose of draping his coat over her curled-up form.

She was very glad that he didn’t appear to have noticed she’d woken, because she honestly had no idea what to say at that moment. An outsider might have questioned why she was so shaken but with how intimately she’d become familiar with ghostly habits and from how well she knew him personally now, Jazz was very aware that Writer was not just attached to this garment—in no small way it made up a part of his very identity.

And he was treating the action—her brain was spluttering a bit, now—so…casually? She could see him still sitting at her desk poring over his notes, focused and calm as could be even completely sans the item that, purportedly, he only ever took off in order to go to sleep himself.

Jazz watched him for a while, blinking a few times in consternation still but gradually calming down. She couldn’t _not_ calm down, really, not in the atmosphere of contented studiousness her room had due to his work. And (if she was being honest) due to his presence in general…she’d been acknowledging more and more just how enjoyable she found it to be around him, lately.

It happened so infrequently that it took Jazz a minute to catch up with what it meant when she realized her face had heated up. The very moment it did, however, she maneuvered the coat’s collar so that it better covered up her cheek.

Writer was _not_ going to see the blush he’d inadvertently brought about.


	2. Nerves

“So how’s your story coming?”

Writer nearly missed the question—Jazz’s voice was quite muffled. He glanced over to find that she was still hidden beneath his coat. “I can’t complain,” he responded, making sure to speak a little louder than he normally would so that she’d be able to hear. “This character conflict’s finally sorting itself out, I think.”

“That’s good to hear.” She started sitting up. “You might have a draft soon, then?”

“Possibly so.” He readjusted his glasses out of habit as he raked his eyes over the notes again. “This is a good starting point…but it’s always hard to tell when the flow is actually going to hit.”

“Can I see?”

He made a noise of consent, still absorbed in the text to the point that he didn’t even look up to her again until she was right beside him. That was when he got a bit of a shock: she’d kept his coat on, clutching it by its collar with crossed arms to keep its too-large bulk about her shoulders. The sight was…nothing short of endearing, really.

Writer blinked and coughed, averting his gaze before he could be accused of staring. _There’s nothing to be so affected about,_ he berated himself. _So she was grateful I gave her my coat, and is keeping it on, and it looks cute. So what?_ His muscles locked up briefly as his mind actually caught up with his impressions. _Wait,_ what _?_

“Writer? You okay?”

He started. “Mm? Ah—yes, yes.” The old nervous habit of scratching the back of his head reappeared. “Got struck by another thought, is all.”

Jazz tilted her head, smiling. “Then shouldn’t you write it down?”

The Ghostwriter didn’t necessarily believe in a higher power, but he asked all the theoretical ones out there ‘why me?’ anyway.


End file.
